Ghost Bandits of Sonora (Elizabeth Crowne) Read online

  GHOST BANDITS OF SONORA

  Robert Isenberg

  GLASS BEAKER PUBLISHING

  Mesa, Arizona

  Copyright © 2018 by Glass Beaker Publishing

  All rights reserved

  Published in the United States by Glass Beaker Publishing, LLC, Arizona.

  Names: Isenberg, Robert, author

  Title: Ghost Bandits of Sonora

  Description: Arizona: Glass Beaker Publishing, 2018

  “Amazing the things you find when you bother to search for them.”

  – Sacagawea

  Prologue

  September, 1922

  Until the moment Sheriff MacAuley went blind, he gave little thought to the things he saw that dry morning. Lying in his hospital bed, mummified in bandages, he tried to remember all he had observed in the hour before his sight was gone forever.

  He remembered arriving at the jail. He remembered turning the old knob and pushing through the main door. The front office was just as he’d left it—a small room, sparsely furnished, with a handful of wanted posters stuck to the plaster walls. A low sun poured light through the windows, and MacAuley’s desk gleamed. He dropped an attaché case into his swivel chair and sighed.

  In the corner sat Deputy Robins, asleep. His ankles were crossed, and his hands were clasped in his lap. At first his face was hidden beneath the brim of his hat, but as MacAuley’s boots scuffed the concrete floor, Robins stirred. He pushed his gray Stetson upward, revealing a cragged face. He winced into the blast of sunshine.

  “Morning, Sheriff,” he growled. He scratched his silver mustache and sat up straight. The rickety chair squeaked beneath his long torso.

  “Morning, Deputy,” said MacAuley. “How are our guests?”

  “Quiet.” Robins stood to his full height, and he flexed his skinny arms. Bones crackled in his neck. “Them boys were too loaded to cause much trouble. Nodded off around midnight, I’d say.”

  “Easy come, easy go,” the Sheriff said. “We’ll let ’em sober up. Tell ’em to quit picking fights. Let ’em go around noon.”

  “Fine by me,” said Robins.

  MacAuley remained standing. He groped his belt, tapping a finger against its buckle. He said, “Before we start the day, what do you say to a little breakfast?”

  Robins coughed into a fist. “You mean—coffee?”

  The Sheriff rocked on his heels. “I have me a hankering for some fried eggs and biscuits. What do you say? My treat.”

  Robins shrugged cordially. “Don’t wait for me to say no.”

  The Sheriff smirked, saluted the Deputy with two fingers, and sauntered back out the door.

  In the weeks that followed, MacAuley would relive that walk again and again. He would imagine the myriad things he noticed but paid no mind. He stepped onto Main Street, soles thudding against the packed earth. A pair of overloaded trucks hobbled past him. A bearded man in overalls strode by, flanked by a panting husky. A dark-skinned woman swept the porch of the general store, nodding meekly at the Sheriff.

  The town’s facades were a patchwork of dark shadows and overwhelming light. The old wood buildings were staggered along the road, a jumble of cracked-open doors and hand-painted signs. Beyond the tin rooftops loomed the sand-colored mountains, their peaks jagged. The sky was already pure blue.

  MacAuley turned toward a shop window, whose glass was dark enough to reflect his profile. He allowed himself a moment of vanity—to study his freshly shaven jaw, his bright brown eyes, the playful bushiness of his brows. He took pride in his pressed black suits, and he never minded the baking heat within. He pinched two points of his faded gray star, which was pinned firmly next to his lapel. He cleared his throat, once, then twice. He whispered to himself, “Here goes.”

  Above all, these were the minutes he would revisit in his mind, over and over, to the brink of madness. He would picture himself crossing the street, swallowing hard as the cantina came closer. He would see the steam escaping from stewpots; he would smell the meat that crackled on blackened grills. He would see the bountiful piles of fresh tortillas. And behind that long wood counter, he would see her. The tiny smile. The narrow frame. The small shoulders enwrapped in a patterned shawl. The dark hair braided around her ears and bound in a red scarf. The eyes that glistened like dew.

  MacAuley’s hat dropped into his hands, and he bowed his head with practiced reverence.

  “Señorita,” he said.

  Her eyes fell to the ground.

  “Señor,” she said.

  “Dos huevos fritos, por favor,” said the Sheriff, careful to enunciate every syllable. “Y,” he added, “dos más para mi compañero.”

  Rosita’s cheeks swelled with suppressed amusement. Her voice tinkled as she said, “Sí, señor,” and she plucked two eggs from a woven basket. She cracked them easily, and the yolks plopped into an iron griddle. The viscous liquid whitened into two perfect circles.

  MacAuley swallowed hard. He could say nothing more. He had used all his Spanish words. The night before, he had spent hours with a dusty primer, borrowed from the meager stacks of the town library. He knew enough to order food, and that was all. But the way Rosita glanced up at him, the way she bit her curled lip, MacAuley hoped she would think of him in the hours to come. Tonight he would rehearse another phrase. By morning, he would extend their dialogue just a few words more.

  And then, it all changed

  Rosita’s eyes flashed. Her tiny figure shrank away, toward the cantina’s entrance. She raised her hand, fingers splayed, and her mouth parted in awe.

  MacAuley whirled around. Only then did he hear the pounding of horseshoes, the tinkle of buckles. He heard a yelp, then a scream. He saw dark masses forging down the avenue. He saw the horses—their bodies brown and black, their tails flaring behind them. He saw the riders, clad in black trousers, striped black ponchos, black boots. He saw black gloves clutching black reins. He saw black sombreros, the wide brims warping in the breeze.

  But none of that registered. Only later would he recall these fine details. In that moment, he noticed just one thing—the feature that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his days.

  Their faces were skulls.

  Their mouths were sickening grins, stippled with teeth. Black triangles gaped in place of noses. The eyes were giddy circles, their empty gazes circumscribed in white. Every line was embellished with ornamental dots and curlicues. The painting was grotesque, but also masterful, the labor of some macabre artist.

  Uglier still were the horses’ faces—also skulls, with painted jaws and vacuous eyes. The face of death had never looked so defiant, so mocking of the living. In the coming weeks, those faces would stalk MacAuley day and night. Sightless, undistracted by light and color, he would dwell on those skulls in the absolute darkness of his mind.

  MacAuley reached for his Colt .45. His fingers grasped the handle. He felt the weapon slide from its holster, the authoritative weight against his palm. His thumb drew back the hammer. The weapon bobbled at his side as MacAuley marched into the street. He tasted dust and bile.

  On the periphery, he saw a flurry of townsfolk—women scurried, men slammed doors shut, a car veered into a side-street. As the horsemen hurtled down the road, the town emptied of human life. A farmer jogged away, yanking his donkey behind him. A stray cat scuttled beneath a porch. Crows took flight and vanished into the air.

  MacAuley stopped. His knees bent; his legs bowed. His skin felt cool and moist. A droplet of sweat dangled from his eyelash. The scene was soundless. Time refused to pass. All he could sense was the vibration of galloping hooves, the quaking of the earth beneath his soles.

  Then the
riders changed course. Each figure charged in a separate direction. There were five in all, fanning out across the fairway.

  They threw something. All at the same time. In perfect synchronicity. The objects were small. The size of baseballs. Little blobs plunking to the ground.

  MacAuley saw flashes. He heard five bangs, in quick succession. Clouds burst. But not black. Not quite smoke. Maroon-colored. Thick at first. The mist dispersed, drifting everywhere. It lingered in the air. It swallowed the scenery.

  MacAuley squinted. He raised his revolver. But what could he even see? Buildings disappeared in the thickening fog. The horsemen faded into silhouettes, then vanished altogether. MacAuley cupped the grip with both hands. He stared down his barrel, scanning the burgundy void for signs of life.

  He heard screams. Women screaming.

  The bank, MacAuley thought. They’re robbing the bank.

  He couldn’t see the squat adobe building beyond the fog. With its small barred windows and flat roof, the bank was an easy structure to forget. But it stood in the middle of that cloud, he knew. All the town’s money was stored within those walls. There was nowhere else the horsemen could be headed.

  MacAuley launched forward, leading with his gun, as the screams grew louder.

  Shots rang out. Wails of terror and pain. MacAuley heard the frantic voices of women pleading for their lives. His heart throbbed. His veins bulged. With every footfall, he grunted with fury.

  Then he felt it—a tingle on his hands and face. A terrible itch. Still he ran. The sensation worsened. Tears leaked from his eyes. He blinked the droplets away. No good. With every flicker of his lids, his sockets burned more fiercely. The clouds subsumed him. There was no movement, no shape, only rusty murk.

  He saw something. A human shape. Small and womanly, staggering from the depths. MacAuley lowered his weapon. He held his arms wide, hoping to catch her.

  She screamed. The ear-piercing alto tore through him, and MacAuley froze in place. The woman emerged, her arms bent, her wrists limp. Her head was cocked sideways, her mouth wide open. She was middle-aged; plump and plain. She wore a floral dress. MacAuley had passed her a thousand times before. But she was different, now—her face was rust-colored. Her skin was blemished. Her bare forearms had corroded. The raw blotches were punctuated with blood. She stumbled closer, and MacAuley saw the peelings of skin, like a snake in mid-molt. Her lips were chapped and blended with her chin and philtrum. Her eyes were sealed shut; two scarlet lines dribbled down her cheeks.

  She flung herself at MacAuley. He grappled her around the shoulders. She cried out, hysterical, and writhed against his body. He pulled her backward, away from the bank.

  MacAuley felt his own body burning. He felt fire in his mouth, on his tongue, deep within his throat. His stomach churned. He saw his own hands, wrapped around the woman. The skin was changing color. He watched his knuckles bubble up. He watched his fingers blister and break. He sensed the same fiery decay along his neck and face, as if hot tongs were ripping his flesh apart. The pain scorched him everywhere. It was absolute. He heard himself howl.

  Then the cloud faded. The light winked out. MacAuley tried to un-clench his eyes, but realized they were still open. He saw nothing.

  Still he heard his own primal voice, wailing into the emptiness. MacAuley felt the woman go limp in his arms. His strength seeped away. MacAuley released her, and he heard her body crumple at his feet. He bumped his toe against her bulk and lost his balance. He tried to find his feet, but he had no sense of space or direction. He toppled. The ground cracked against his skull. He lay there, listening to his own muffled sobs, as he surrendered to the pain.

  Before he fell unconscious, MacAuley heard the trot of horses. He could sense them, regrouped, riding past. But he had dropped his gun. He saw nothing. He could only lie there, helpless, as the clopping hooves grew fainter, and at last were gone.

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  “Did you know,” said Elizabeth Crowne from behind her newspaper, “that the javelina is born with red hair?”

  Maude Kapuscinski sat across from her in the flatbed truck. She was so jostled by the rocking vehicle that she could barely stay upright on her crate.

  “A have-a-what?” Maude stuttered.

  “Javelina,” Elizabeth said. “It’s a wild pig that lives around here. Something like a boar.” She let the paper dip in the middle and stole a glance at Maude. “You look pale, Maude. How are you holding up?”

  Maude did her best to smile, but she didn’t know what to say. She was exhausted, bruised, and seasick. Maude had never ridden in the back of a pickup before, and she prayed she never would again. Worse, she had never seen a desert in her life, yet here she was, in the middle of one. Sharp-edged mountains rose all around them. The bronzed landscape was peppered with cacti and scrub brush. The truck zigzagged along the road, rising and dipping with the terrain. At every turn, Maude hoped for a level stretch, but each passing boulder revealed a nauseating new curve.

  And then there was the heat. The sun blazed relentlessly above them, unfiltered by a single passing cloud. Maude’s lips cracked; her nostrils burned. There was no cover, except for the brim of her sweat-inducing hat. And now there were wild boars?

  But as usual, Elizabeth showed no trace of discomfort. Maude marveled at her carefree posture, as if she were sitting on a park bench in Pittsburgh. Elizabeth wore her customary dress, black and knee-length, with a pair of hand-tooled riding boots. She had substituted her felt hat with a woven straw cloche, which suited her prettily. The hot breeze flowed freely through her chestnut bob, which had lightened in the ubiquitous sun. Her arms spread across the flatbed’s frame, legs crossed on the steel floor. Elizabeth looked as content as could be.

  She leaned toward the truck’s roof and tapped the metal surface. Inside the cab, two figures sat next to each other—an old farmer at the steering wheel, his son at his side. At the sound of Elizabeth’s fingers rapping steel, the young man turned around and peered through a tiny rear window.

  “How long to Ezra?” Elizabeth called.

  The adolescent leaned toward his father, and they exchanged some words. Then he turned to the window and raised one finger.

  “I hope that doesn’t mean one more day,” Maude murmured, adjusting her hat.

  “Just an hour, I’m guessing,” Elizabeth said. She folded her newspaper and lay it at her side. “Should be quicker, but the monsoons do a number on these roads.”

  Maude looked ahead, toward the approaching stretch of highway. The route was originally composed of crushed gravel, but the year’s floods had dug trenches into the soil, and the surface was littered with rocks. The pickup was sturdy—it could probably push 40 miles per hour—but the savage conditions hindered their speedometer. Now and again Maude heard stones ricochet off the wheels, or errant branches scrape along the chassis. Naked rock was everywhere; some of the mountains looked like piled globs of stone. As the sun waned above the twisted saguaros, Maude wondered what would happen if a tire went flat.

  “There we are,” Elizabeth declared, pointing.

  And just like that, the slopes spread apart like theater curtains. A narrow valley revealed itself. Maude could see the many switchbacks that led to the far end of the vale. The town didn’t look like much, just a brown stain in the middle of sandy-colored flats. The mountains formed a wreath around the basin, high and foreboding. As the truck started to descend, Maude struggled to breathe. It was as if the ridges themselves were conspiring to entrap them.

  “Thanks for the lift, Mr. Parker,” said Elizabeth.

  “Was headed this way, anyway,” said the heavyset farmer. He dragged Elizabeth’s suitcase across the flatbed and set it firmly on the ground.

  Elizabeth reached into the pocket of her dress and drew out a tiny green scroll. She unfurled the paper to reveal it as a two-dollar bill. Mr. Parker blushed. He took the banknote in both hands and stared at Hamilton’s stoic green face.

  “Thank you, miss,�
�� Mr. Parker said. He backed away, for fear of having to talk much more. “Be careful ’round here.”

  Elizabeth and Maude picked up their suitcases and started down Ezra’s main road. Maude had seen a dozen such towns in books and motion pictures, but now the place was real: high storefronts and primitive awnings, dust-matted cars and horses hitched to posts. A cluster of sheds congregated nearby; a fat water tower hovered above. Most of the structures were old but occupied. One sign was so decayed that Elizabeth could barely read “saloon.” The window frames were stripped of glass, the dark interior gutted.

  “Too bad,” sneered Elizabeth. “I was thirsty.”

  The McDowell Hotel looked hopelessly out of place in such a hardscrabble town. The imperious pink building perched on a hill, its broad white windows overlooking the shacks and saltboxes below. From a distance, the entire town of Ezra seemed to bow before the McDowell, which boasted four stories and was nearly as long as a battleship. But as Elizabeth and Maude walked the long driveway to The McDowell’s front gate, the hotel lost its lustrous appearance: The festive paint was weathered and chipped. The sloped roof was missing panels of slate. Even one of its windows was filled in with brick.

  They crossed the front lot, where a few cars were parked, and climbed the front steps to the entryway. The double doors were already propped open, revealing the lobby within. But it wasn’t as luxurious as Maude expected; the sofas were worn, and a single ceiling fan whirled from the plain white ceiling. The reception desk was clinical-looking, like a post office’s. A man leaned over the unpolished oak surface, flipping through a magazine. He was mustached and cherubic, and when he saw the two women approach, he offered a strained smile. A brass name tag was pinned to his vest: Orville.

  “How may I help you ladies?” he said.

  “One room, two beds,” said Elizabeth.